FSF, October-November 2006

by Spilogale, Inc

  So, for that reason, he went cautiously, and also in case the men he pursued lay in wait for him as he would have done for them. The gash on his leg throbbed. Everything he liked about this land scant months before—abundance of game and the absence of men—no longer held true. A dagger-toothed lion's roar dropped off the steep mountainsides some miles away, perhaps in similar complaint.

  He smelled the camp first—the scent of roasted venison and the sharp stink of wood smoke. Their fire filled a little bowl of land with long flickering shadows, and drew him as certainly as a moth. He would sneak into their camp, filch what he needed or wanted, then continue his trek into the empty mountains west.

  Creeping forward, he hid among the trees. Brush had been cleared from the center of the small dell and piled up in a rough wall around the camp. The orange glow of the fire reflected on white bones piled in a midden outside the brush wall. From the clicks of movement and an occasional crunch, he gathered that some small scavengers fed there. He skirted the camp in the opposite direction to avoid any unwelcome chance encounters or alarms. A badger could ruin everything.

  Up close, he counted eleven men, mostly seated around the fire, talking loud and vigorously as if they feared nothing in the darkness. Unmoving shapes on the ground could have been sleeping men or packs of some sort.

  Maggot sat down patiently, waiting for them to fall asleep. As soon as he stopped moving, his injured leg began to stiffen.

  The group of men rose and went over to one of the shapes lying immobile on the ground, where they began yelling at it and gesturing into the forest. Maggot didn't recognize any of the words. They were wholly unlike any of the three languages—Trollish, Wyndan, or Imperial—that he knew. But the meanings were clear enough, especially once they started kicking the figure. They wanted information, and the man on the ground was unable or unwilling to give it.

  Maggot cared only in so far as it either created an opportunity for him to take what he wished or delayed his assault on the camp—until they took splinters of burning wood from the fire. The first coal-red ends of the sticks extinguished themselves in the dark shape of the man's body, and his screams shot like bolts through the dark.

  Leaping to his feet, Maggot darted past the edge of the trees before he caught himself. A hatred of fire, used as a weapon, had been deeply ingrained in him by his mother. He cupped his hands and drummed out the troll's “danger, death” warning on his chest.

  The torture stopped as all eyes, dark in their sockets, turned his way. He did not know if the men recognized the sound, or its meaning, but the torture stopped.

  While a small group of men gathered weapons and ventured in his direction, Maggot darted to the other side of the camp and repeated the sound. Those who dared the darkness at his first cry, came running back into the firelight and, after a brief exchange among themselves, went after him again.

  But he had moved to a new position. As soon as the others reached their simple wall of brush, he pounded out the warning tattoo for the third time, adding his voice to it—a bellowing, guttural cry of challenge and defiance. Several arrows whizzed immediately in his direction, but he had already dropped and as soon as they whistled past him, he scuttled off again.

  In the brief interval of silence that followed, the dagger-toothed lion roared, this time much closer than before. Maggot found himself between two dangers—the men who'd tried to kill him once already today and a lion who, if she was as hungry as he was, would attempt the same. He pulled himself up into the crotch of a giant elm tree. Although immobile, he had a better perch to observe the men and watch for the lion.

  He soon realized that his impulsive actions had ruined his chances of sneaking into camp after the warriors were asleep. Between his din and the lion, the men showed no inclination to rest. They paced around the perimeter of their camp, added more fuel to the fire, and seemed to argue over sending scouts into the darkness.

  Neither Maggot nor the lion made another sound, and after a time, a few men lay down, then more. But their eyes, those that he could see, stayed wide open. Other men took turns as sentries, sitting by the light and piling wood on the blaze.

  The men didn't return to tormenting their victim, however. Maggot was satisfied with that. The air grew colder, the silver clouds fell apart in shreds, and the stars beyond them wheeled across the sky.

  Stuck in his tree, Maggot faced a difficult choice. He wanted food and weapons from the camp, he wanted to be far from this vicinity by the time morning arrived, and he wanted to know where the lion was before he started on his way. He was ready to settle for one out of the three, and continue on his way, when the buzz of a snorer told him that the men had started to doze off. He decided to wait. A short while later, the sentry by the fire yawned. He added more logs to the fire, then lifted his hands above his head and stretched his arms.

  In a split second, Maggot fitted an arrow to his bow, drew, aimed, and released. The bolt shot in under the guard's left arm and pierced his heart, killing him instantly. Maggot jumped from the crotch of the tree, alighting just as the guard collapsed in a heap on the ground.

  In seconds he was inside the camp, though the scab that had formed over the wound on the back of his thigh broke open and started to bleed again. Moving silently, he grabbed a quiver of arrows from the side of one sleeping figure and cut a strip of badly charred venison from the spit beside the fire. He was shoving the blackened meat whole into his mouth when he noticed that one man was not asleep.

  The prisoner. He was fair-skinned, like the others, but with lighter hair, maybe blond, maybe gray-white, long and unbraided. He wore nothing, having been stripped of all his clothes and possessions. His ankles were bound together and his arms outspread, staked to the ground. There were burn marks on his thighs, his stomach, and his face. Although his mouth was not gagged, he neither shouted out a warning nor made any attempt to ask for assistance.

  Maggot stooped, used his knife to quickly saw through the bonds. He did it less to help the man, who meant nothing to him, than to frustrate the hunters who had frightened his game and chased him all that day.

  The prisoner didn't care about his motivations. He met Maggot's eyes and smiled, a wry small curling of the lips. He briskly rubbed his feet to restore circulation and then plundered the dead sentry's weapons. Almost a minute had passed and Maggot was eager to be away. He was hacking the last large piece of meat off the spit when there were abrupt sounds of the lion's roar, a scuffle at the bone pile, snarls and a single high-pitched squeal.

  One or two of the men jumped up, startled, and on seeing Maggot and the prisoner, shouted, bringing all the others to their feet. Maggot shoved the meat in his teeth, troll fashion, and ran for the forest. One man stood in his way. Maggot dodged to one side, but the man leapt at him, and they grappled briefly until Maggot slashed his arm and he fell back with a shout. Another of the hunters rushed at him and dropped as the prisoner cut him down with the sentry's sword.

  The fair-haired man said something, jerking his head as if to give Maggot the lead. But Maggot was already off running, wincing as he leapt the brush pile, fleeing into the darkness beyond the fire and the camp. The other man could follow if he wanted. If he was able.

  As the first arrows whipped through the young leaves around them, the former prisoner sprinted forward to catch up. Maggot stretched his legs and ran faster.

  * * * *

  3.

  No immediate pursuit appeared to follow the last volley, but Maggot was unwilling to rest. Now more than ever, he wanted to cover that distance toward the mountains where he felt sure he could elude any number of pursuers. But he ran on at an uncomfortably slow pace, compared to his normal speed, because of the ache in his leg. Blood flowed from the scab, streaking his calf and making his foot slick. He concentrated on ignoring the sharp pain.

  A look over his shoulder revealed the prisoner at his heels. He carried the scabbard and sword in one hand, and a small bag in the other, pumping his arms to keep up.
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  Once they reached the ridgetops, passing from one to the next, they slowed again to avoid tumbling into the marshy bottom lands between the hills. They paused on one tree-covered slope to consider the alternatives, but the deep shadows and unfamiliar terrain made it difficult to choose any certain trail. Maggot studied the sky through the immature canopy. The moon had set earlier, but from the position of the stars and the smell of the wind, he judged that they were heading in a southerly direction and so he sought out the more westerly path. But the prisoner had studied the sky also, and had his own sense of direction. He said something to Maggot, and pointed out a track that would take them farther south.

  When Maggot turned to answer, the other man pointed at Maggot's mouth. His lips curled into that small smile again before cracking into open laughter.

  Maggot's hand leapt to his lips—he'd forgotten the meat clenched tight between his jaws. He took it in his hand and laughed also, a deep, resonant laugh that made his shoulders shake before he stifled it in case there were pursuers. Remembering his manners, he offered it to the other man out of reflex. “It's ruined with burning,” he apologized in the language of the empire, because this man reminded him more of his friend Bran. “But it fills the belly."

  The man's eyes narrowed, but he grinned as he accepted it. He tore it in half and gave the larger half back, much to Maggot's relief as he quickly shoved the meat into his own mouth. They both chewed for a moment in silence. Maggot thought about how he hadn't laughed in months, except for the joke he played on the hunting cat. He thought about trying to explain that incident.

  Before he could speak, the stranger said something Maggot didn't understand—not a word sounded familiar—and once again pointed to the more southerly of the two trails.

  Maggot had intended to go on alone into the far reaches of the mountains. But it was better that they keep moving, and either direction would take them farther from the group of hunters. Maggot gestured for him to lead on.

  While he did not run, as Maggot had, he had long, rapid strides that carried them quickly down the wooded slope to a stream where they paused to sip. Water was plentiful, so there was no need to drink until their bellies swelled and slowed them down. Maggot's estimation of his companion rose in measure to his moderation.

  The other man looked at Maggot, then touched one finger to his chest. “Ehren,” he repeated several times. The words rolled off his tongue with a strangely liquid sound to them.

  Maggot understood at once. He sorted through all the names he'd been given among people, and answered instead with the name his troll mother had always called him, the oldest name he knew for himself. “Maggot,” he said, tapping his own chest.

  The other man nodded, and spouted a rapid flow of words as if perfect communication had been established. Finally, out of reflex and frustration, Maggot made a bitter face, sticking out his tongue. It was the way he'd learned to say no and stop.

  Ehren's mouth dropped open in midproclamation and he laughed again, shaking his head. Maggot responded in kind.

  It was very good to laugh again.

  Standing up, Ehren led them south. When the sun rose on their left, they had traveled nearly two leagues across difficult wilderness. Maggot felt satisfied that they were safe from the hunters and would have carried on at a more leisurely pace later in the day after resting. But Ehren was avid to push on. His burns looked raw in the dawn.

  "Where are we rushing to?” Maggot asked in the language of the empire, not expecting any answer, at least none he could comprehend. His leg ached and he wanted rest. “Let's find a nice cool place to sleep."

  Ehren glanced at Maggot, but would not pause, and he did not even glance back when Maggot repeated the question in the language of the mountain people. Maggot was growing irritated, but he decided to go on. He liked Ehren, because they had laughed together.

  Several times they spied game in the forest, small rodents that evaded them quickly. Near midday, they spotted a herd of the wood bison grazing in the forest. Maggot preferred their meat to venison when he could get it. The tongues were especially tasty.

  Indicating Maggot's bow, Ehren directed Maggot to shoot one or offered to do it instead. Maggot tapped his own chest, indicating his preference. Ehren nodded acceptance and began creeping toward the game. Maggot grabbed his shoulder and stopped him. He wrinkled his nose, making a slight sniffing sound, then made a follow-me motion and led Ehren downwind. He shifted his weight as he walked, to ease the injured leg. Bison had terrible eyesight, but their sense of smell was as strong as a troll's. The slightest whiff of something unusual could send them into a panic. Even a breeze too light to stir the leaves could carry a human scent.

  Maggot counted seven animals in all—a bull, three cows, and three calves. They grazed in a meadow about a hundred feet away. Maggot crept out from the trees, chose the nearer calf, and sunk a feathered shaft into its side.

  The animal bleated in terror, as the other bison lowed and bolted. Not knowing which direction danger came from, they stampeded in Maggot's direction, leaving the wailing calf behind spiraling in a wounded circle as it fell. The cows and surviving calves veered off into the forest. But the bull, whether by chance or some vagary of the wind, focused his red eyes right on Maggot's position. He lowered his heavy horned head, squared the great hump of his shoulders, and charged.

  Maggot meant to dash to the nearest tree, but his injured leg tightened at the sharp movement and the bull was on him. Dropping his bow, Maggot braced himself and grabbed the short, sharp horns in either hand. The impact tossed him backward, but he jumped with it, landing again on his feet, still clinging to the horns.

  The bull bellowed, shrugging its massive shoulders, lifting Maggot again. This time when he landed, he twisted the head immediately, attempting to drive the beast into the ground. It reacted in confusion and panic, trying to pull away, but Maggot screamed and wrenched the neck with all the strength he'd earned by wrestling trolls much larger than himself. As the bull's front legs buckled beneath it, Maggot prepared to let go and run for the trees. But Ehren rushed forward and thrust his sword through its throat. The great animal grunted, tried to heave itself up, and collapsed.

  Maggot stood there panting heavily. He would not have killed it, knowing the cows and calves were now unprotected. When he looked up at Ehren, the other man was grinning, running his fingertip along the wet broad side of the sword, and licking the blood from it. He saw Maggot watching and wiggled his eyebrows humorously.

  Across the meadow, the stricken calf gave out a few depleted bleats. Limping more than he cared to think about, Maggot went over to the poor creature. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, and its back legs kicked futilely without budging its body. Drawing his knife, Maggot dispatched the calf quickly.

  They gutted the smaller animal, and Maggot would have been happy enough to eat it raw. When Ehren balked at this, Maggot drew forth his flint and steel. They could dare a small fire, and Ehren gathered branches of a type that produced very little smoke, which thinned and dissipated before it passed the treetops. The flesh was still pink, and running with juices when they ate, which was well enough for Maggot.

  He examined his injured leg more closely when they were done. The tear in the muscle was the size of a nut. The pain did not bother him as much as the other consequences. It needed time to heal, but instead he kept straining it.

  Based on the tone of his voice, Ehren was asking Maggot questions. Maggot walked away. A small stream trickled through the lower end of the meadow. He drank from it, then cleaned the wound and bound it with a strip of cloth cut from the hem of his breechcloth. Ehren joined him.

  "We should find a hidden place and sleep while the day lasts,” Maggot said in the language of the empire, and then the mountain people. He was exhausted. “We'll continue tonight, after dark."

  Ehren shook his head and spoke vigorously, peaking his hands, and making dropping motions. Maggot gathered after a while that he was describing the land he came fr
om, somewhere in the south in the shelter of the mountain ranges. He soon understood the words for mountain, and Ehren's description of a waterfall.

  "A mountain and a waterfall,” Maggot said, using Ehren's words. He laughed, but this time it was not such a happy sound. “This land is nothing but mountain and waterfall."

  Ehren began explaining all over again, pointing to the east.

  "Enough,” Maggot said, cutting him off with a sharp turn of his shoulder. “I'm tired, and I hurt, and I want to rest before nightfall. Let us wrap what meat we can carry in the skins we cut, and find some hole or hidden place where we can sleep before other scavengers arrive."

  He pointed to the buzzards circling in the sky above the meadow. Ehren comprehended well enough that he gathered their store of food.

  When he saw Maggot limping, he offered an arm to help him along. Maggot refused. He had no intentions of going any farther than a decent resting place. When they came to a tumbled outcrop of rock that offered some minimal shelter, Maggot lay down, shoving his bundle under a ledge of stone, then scooting in beside it.

  Ehren had dark circles under his eyes as well, made worse by the burn marks on his cheeks. He became angry, indicating that they should go on while there was still daylight.

  "You can go wherever you like,” Maggot said. “But I'm going to sleep.” And that was exactly what he did, burrowing his head into his arm, closing his eyes. He was sleeping when he felt a footstep nearby. Instantly he rolled to his feet, alert, defensive, knife drawn and ready to strike.

  But it was only Ehren, who took a step back. It was several hours later. He held his bag in one hand, and it appeared heavier. There was mud on his fingers, and the sword in his fist.

  "You should not startle me,” Maggot said, and Ehren nodded at the sound of his voice, then quickly indicated that he was lying down to sleep. “Very smart,” Maggot said, and when the other man was still, he settled down again himself.